


One Republic, Under M

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: 8 years after the Blackout (2020), Correspondence, Gen, Language, Military nerdiness abounds, Militia days, Platonic Miloe, Unreliable Narration, Virginia campaign
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As President Monroe and General Matheson struggle to reconcile a potentially serious rift in their loyalty to one another, Rachel Matheson’s fate and the destiny of the Republic hangs in the balance. Essentially, this is a big, platonic Miloe love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> _A note on timing and background:_ About a month has passed since Rachel left her family to surrender herself to Miles. During this time, Bass repeatedly asked Miles to bring Rachel back to Philadelphia, but Miles demurred, finally resulting in Bass coming to retrieve them. They are now on their way to the capital city, however, Miles has been ordered to diverge at York, Pennsylvania, in order to take command of operations in Virginia, where a territorial war with Georgia is raging.
> 
>  _A note on perspective:_ The narration filters through Miles’ p.o.v. and is consequently somewhat unreliable. The audience also gets a peek at Bass’ motivations (those to which he will admit, anyway) through his personal correspondence.

October 3, 2020

 _Drop your shoulders. Breathe._ Miles chastises his fingers for migrating to his knife for the umpteenth time and tightens his grip on the pliant leather of Zeppelin’s reigns. He’s telegraphing tension to her – can feel it in the unevenness of her gait. _Sorry, old girl. Sorry, too, for what’s about to come._

He keeps his eyes trained on the most familiar sight in the world to him, short, golden curls (at the moment drooping with viscous rain), rather than the thing beside him he most wants to regard: Rachel, hands bound as if in prayer, horse fettered to his, as they make the journey that must not end in Philadelphia. _Familiarity does breed contempt_ , he scowls at his lifelong brother. It also breeds an impenetrable network of loyalties and needs. So reliant is Miles on Bass by now, that there are parts of his brain he simply hasn’t used in years.

Planning Rachel’s escape has taken every ounce of his meager intelligence, and yet he’s still convinced he’ll be found out whether by the small fortune of diamonds he siphoned from the treasury to pay his conspirator or by his recent hesitancy to bring Rachel to Philadelphia at Bass’ behest. If Miles had enlisted Rachel’s formidable brain, the plan might have been tighter, but he couldn’t have her doubting his loyalty to the Republic. He’s no apostate. He’s just worried about her safety, because he’s a pathetic, sentimental chump, despite the fact that she’s sewn in him more upset and confusion in just a few weeks than his asshole father had managed in eighteen years. Bass is president and his will, however arbitrary these days, reigns. Alone with Bass in Philly, there is no telling what will happen to her.

What arrogance made her get involved in the first place? How could Ben have let this happen?

Bass wants Ben to reverse the Blackout, and Miles knows better than to believe Bass’ motivations simple megalomania. The weather’s been so terribly erratic this year – first a drought, then an early and devastating frost – that it doesn’t take a genius to deduce that there will be a great starving this winter. While Miles has been dicking around with Rachel for the better part of a month trying to extract Ben’s whereabouts (a fruitless, humiliating, and occasionally cruel enterprise that he can’t – _won’t let himself_ – fully acknowledge), his army has been inching down into Virginia to “liberate” it from Georgia. Virginia wasn’t hit as badly as the Northeast and Midwest this year; the Monroe Republic needs her crops. Now. 

So _no_ , it doesn’t matter that Miles and Bass want Ben for differing complicated reasons (Miles’ so labyrinthine he can scarcely articulate them to himself). What matters at this precise moment is getting Rachel out while he still can, because Miles should have been in Virginia weeks ago.

The earth cracks and upends. The horses rear up on their delicate hind legs. Then, dense suffocating smoke clogs their senses. The entire party is coughing, tearing up. Miles flings his sleeve over his nose and drags his knife through the hemp tethering Rachel’s horse to his. (He’ll later tell Bass he did it to save her from being thrown.)

But something is wrong. His hired man is suddenly visible in the chaos, staggering toward Rachel with an evident, seeping wound at his side. As several of the Militia party make for the assailant - _fuck_ \- Miles has to aim his pistol and shoot his man in the brain. Well, his plan has gone to shit.

Rachel’s wild, blue eyes dart to his and lock with silent censure: _You cold-blooded animal._

Now all Miles can hope is that his man was smart enough to bury the treasury diamonds.

“Everyone all right?” Miles chokes out hoarsely.

Bass catches his breath and wheels around Gunsmoke, his gray mare, wheezing, “Miles, why did you kill him? We should have questioned him!”

“Sorry. Panicked. He was running at Rachel.” Even Miles is aware that, despite the blood thundering in his ears, his voice is too even.

Bass infinitesimally cocks an eyebrow.

The mucosal rain slackens, but Miles has misplaced his riding gloves and can barely bend his fingers. Clicking to Zeppelin, he leads the party onward, drowning in hopelessness and self-pity.

* * *

Two days later, they’ve come to the fork in the road where Miles and his staff are to diverge toward Manassas, Virginia, while Bass, Rachel, and the president’s staff embark for the capital. Miles draws Zeppelin alongside Gunsmoke, and the horses briefly break discipline to nuzzle one another – as good friends as their riders. 

“Be careful getting home,” Miles grunts at Bass, jerking Zep’s reign. The cerulean eyes flit ever so quickly to Miles and then back to the road.

“Take my gloves, Miles. It’s nearly winter. Your hands are blue.”

Miles receives them gratefully and presses, “What are you going to do with her?” 

“I’ll keep her in the Hall under heavy guard like we discussed. She’s smart, Miles. Dangerous. Just remember that.”

They’re whispering, scarcely moving their lips so the men don’t hear, or worse yet Rachel, whose horse is tied to Col. McDunn’s behind them.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That she works you over, pal.”

“That’s in the past.”

Bass inclines his head. “Why don’t you focus on what you’re good at and win us Virginia? The Republic needs you right now more than she does.”

“Bass…” 

“I won’t touch her, Miles. I know what she means – _meant_ – to you.” The touch of skepticism marbled through with – _what? jealousy?_ – isn’t lost on Miles.

Miles wants to believe his best friend, and what choice does he have? He could go traitorous right now over a woman who hates him so thoroughly that she tried to stab him in his sleep a few weeks back, or he can wrap up the Virginia campaign and then work on getting Bass to let her go. Because Rachel’s never going to yield. And if this past month has taught Miles anything, it’s that Ben isn’t coming for her.

* * *

Capt. Jeremy Baker  
Independence Hall, Philadelphia

October 5, 2020

Dear Jeremy:

No doubt you’ve heard through official channels of our little scuffle en route to Philly. Our party is safe.

Report immediately to Manassas to keep an eye on Miles. Rachel has gotten under his skin.

w/r  
SM  
York, Pennsylvania

Burn This Letter

* * *

Commander-in-Chief Sebastian Monroe

October 6, 2020

Dear Mr. President:

Right away, sir. You don’t think the disturbance was caused by Miles, do you? With all due respect, what am I looking for in Miles? If I may speak freely: Miles is your best friend. He is also my friend and my commanding general. He could have me executed for spying on him.

Very Respectfully,  
Capt. J. S. Baker  
Independence Hall, Philadelphia

* * *

Capt. Jeremy Baker  
Independence Hall, Philadelphia

October 6, 2020

Jeremy:

Who else could have arranged it? Miles is in love with Rachel Matheson. Don’t underestimate what he would do for her. I’m not suggesting he is disloyal to the Republic. Be discrete. Just look for any changes in mood, any suspicious behavior. Keep me informed every few days.

w/r  
SM

Burn as before

* * *

Commander-in-Chief Sebastian Monroe

October 7, 2020

President, Sir:

I will do my best, but you know better than anyone that Miles’ mood only changes from sour to sourer. The only thing that could possibly startle me is if he started shooting rainbows out of his ass and skipping. But, of course, I will follow your orders to the letter. You and the Republic have my devotion, sir.

Very Respectfully,  
Jeremy  
Independence Hall, Philadelphia

p.s. I have destroyed all correspondence per your wishes.


	2. Say Something

Commander-in-Chief Sebastian Monroe  
Independence Hall, Philadelphia

October 31, 2020

Dear Mr. President:

Nothing scary happening this Halloween, sir. The stalemate continues, though some of us imagine the enemy sniper fire has waned slightly. The general is more cantankerous and drunker than ever. Nothing too unusual. Everyone’s morale is low at the moment. I put one of my socks on his head like a little baby hat and told him he could be my sock puppet for Halloween, and he aimed his pistol at my chest. So...normal. I suppose the only thing that could be considered out of the ordinary is when I pried his whiskey out of his fingers a few nights ago to get him to sleep, his eyelashes looked wet. (Yes, I was that close. I took off his knickers for him, too, if you were wondering. Do I get paid extra for this?) In any case, Miles isn’t usually a weepy drunk, or not in the time I’ve known him. But interpreting the signs is your domain, Your Highness.

Very Respectfully,  
Capt. J. B.  
HQ, Manassas, Virginia

p.s. I think he misses you. Come and visit soon.

* * *

Capt. Jeremy Baker  
HQ, Manassas, Virginia 

November 1, 2020

Jeremy:

Cheeky bastard.

w/r  
SM

p.s. Keep up the good work.

* * *

November 11, 2020

Beneath Miles’ boots the crackle of brittle straw on clay is a gentler echo of the intermittent sniper fire. But Miles can scarcely hear either above the relentless barrage of Jeremy’s soliloquy. It seems like Jeremy has been omnipresent lately, a fact that could almost break the introverted Miles, as much as he cares for the blathering fuck. Bass is the only person he can stand to be around as much as himself (might even slightly _prefer_ Bass).

“Shut up!” Miles thinks he barks but is wrung so thin between the great rollers of responsibility and debilitating stomach pain that he might have just shifted against the trench wall and grunted. 

Miles tries to focus his bleary eyes on their magnificent system of fortifications, parts of it laid with thatched roof, for Christ sakes. He’s damn proud, but by no stretch of the imagination did he mastermind it. No, former civil engineer Maj. Roger Whitworth is chief of this rabbit warren.

Miles marvels at how bloody his fingernails look caked with brick-red Virginia mud as Jeremy mounts the triumphant climax of his oration, which hasn’t penetrated the general's consciousness at all until this moment:

“No battle is ever won…They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools. That’s Faulkner, _The Sound and the Fury_ , Miles. That’s the good stuff!”

“Of all the horse-shit claptrap,” Miles winds up irritably and then explodes, “Why don’t we throw your overstuffed, pillowy ass into No Man’s Land and see how it lights up? Then we’ll find out if battles are really fought and won!” Yeah, Miles is a mean old bastard, and it’s wrong of him to poke at Jeremy’s coping mechanism under stress – gluttony – when all Jeremy ever does is try to help the dipsomaniac Miles stay on the wagon (had to wrench a bottle from Miles' belligerent fist only last night).

Jeremy should act pissed – should glower and stomp away (it’s what Miles would do) – but he only reaches into his pocket to extract a blue packet with perforated edges. “Know you’ve been feeling poorly, sir, so I had an aide do a little exploring and found you this. Alka Seltzer.” 

Miles snatches the gift with a grateful sigh. “Goddamn, Jeremy. Why are you so nice to me?”

“Because you keep our sorry asses alive, sir. And trust me, you’re just the face of all our exceedingly grumpy moods.” Jeremy scowls at the horizon. “Thank the Lord for no airplanes. I can’t imagine being shelled in addition to all the snipers.”

Miles grunts agreement and gazes from his narrow-necked canteen to the meds, his intelligence unwilling to plumb the depths of how to get said Alka Seltzer successfully dissolved and into his searing belly. He can only imagine how he looks to Jeremy – something akin to a big, whiskered toddler. (None of them have shaved all month.)

“Use my mug sir,” but instead of handing it to him, Jeremy reclaims the packet and prepares the plop-plop, fizz-fizz of relief for his bone-weary commander. 

Nothing has ever tasted so good to Miles. The liquid crackles all the way down his esophagus and extinguishes the flames of his torment.

“Maybe clean the salt out of your lip curtain before you start giving orders, sir. Looks a little demented. We like our general ornery not crazy.”

With Miles roughly fingering his mustache, Jeremy departs to check on the lines.

“Sir!” a corporal materializes and salutes Miles.

“Don’t salute, son. You’ll draw attention to us, and we’ll be sniper food.”

The wisp of a youngster cartoonishly slaps himself in the forehead. “Sorry, sir. Habit.”

Miles nods. “Go ahead.”

“White flag coming in from the Georgians, sir.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! Why didn’t you say so?” Miles claps the wee lad so hard on the back that he flings the kid a full foot and then frowns at his apparent preternatural strength.

* * *

The President  
Independence Hall, Philadelphia 

November 11, 2020

Dear Mr. President:

General Butler requested an 8-week armistice, acting on President Foster’s authority. Happy Veteran’s Day. Please advise.

Respectfully,  
Maj. Gen. M. E. Matheson 1  
HQ in the field, Manassas, VA

                                                            (Semper Fi!) 2

…

1\. On LJ we decided Miles’ middle name is Elmer. It’s a long story.  
2\. That’s Marine talk for Always Faithful. Once a Marine, always a Marine.

* * *

Maj. Gen. M. E. Matheson  
HQ, Manassas, Virginia

November 12, 2020 3

Dear Miles,

Excellent news. You and your men have my sincere gratitude. Please accept the armistice with my compliments and wait for me to arrive before negotiating with Butler. Also, why the hell do you insist on making official correspondence so formal? For posterity? Twit.

w/r  
Bass

Semper Fi, brother.

…

3\. If you’re wondering how Miles got this letter to Bass so fast and back again, they have a kind of Pony Express operation running between Manassas, Virginia, where the Monroe Militia has been holed up for months, and Philadelphia (roughly 170 miles). Pony Express riders could travel at 10 miles per hour (at a trot), even up to 25 at a gallop, and could change horses 8-10 times per day.

* * *

November 16, 2020

When Miles gave the orders to evacuate the trenches and erect a new tent city, the men cheered up and down the ranks. The whiskey ration was also warmly received. While the pause may only be temporary, trench warfare is incrementally soul sucking, and Miles could tell by his own personal rain cloud lifting ever-so-slightly that it’ll do wonders for morale. For one thing, they can bathe again. He’s sent off to laundry that pair of mildewy drawers he’s been wearing for weeks and even powdered his balls – Virginia is muggy as a motherfucker – and there’s nothing like personal hygiene to give you new perspective.

As Miles vacates his tent this morning, he sees the Republic colors approaching, the simple but beautiful M that at certain times can almost choke him up, ridiculously sentimental as that sounds. He gives everything he has to those colors.

Miles regards the nearby soldiers, which include the perpetually sullen Brig. Gen. Jim Hudson (who led this operation capably until Miles arrived a month ago) and Jeremy again, looking alarmingly amused. Miles hopes it isn’t embarrassingly late in the morning; he went on a slight bender in celebration last night. Who’s he kidding? Is something really a celebration when you drink on your own, morosely recounting your sins against Rachel Matheson, scarcely able to get the whiskey down your throat because you’re horizontal on your cot?

The flag and its accompanying party are upon them.

“Your commander-in-chief, boys. Stand up,” Miles orders in a voice that is surprisingly gravelly even to him. His stomach churns acid. Damn, he thought he’d kicked that. 

Miles and all who are present stand at attention and render President Monroe a fine salute, who hops briskly off Gunsmoke and salutes them cheerfully. Miles admires that about Bass – that he can appear friendly and sociable and yet still respectable. Miles feels silly, unnatural whenever he smiles. His mouth twitches right now though, happy as he is to see his best friend, and he scrapes his hand over his lips and beard to silence the over-eager muscles. He should have shaved instead of drank last night; he knows he looks like shit. Bass will notice. Hell, Bass can probably smell his peculiar combination of talcum-powdered balls and whiskey from over there. 

“Gentlemen. Good work securing the armistice. We’ve got Foster on the run.” Bass fully grins now, all dimples and teeth, and Miles grimaces so as not to return it. Miles’ twisted face only appears to make Bass smile wider. “General, you look like hell,” he puts out his hand, and Miles takes it briefly. “Is that gray in your beard? Christ. Shave off that shit before we talk to Kelly, so she doesn’t think we’re weak and old.”

Jeremy chortles, while Jim faintly betrays his good humor before returning to the scowl. (Jim and Miles are two peas in a pod.)

“Come on, General. I’d like a word with you in private.”

Miles and Bass duck into his tent. As the morning sun filters through the great, white billows, it reminds Miles of a wedding dress. _Hers. Fuck._ And he’d been doing so well avoiding this topic since he woke up hungover from thinking about her all last night. He clumsily clinks together two tumblers and pours out some whiskey for them.

“A little water in it?” Miles asks. After all, it can’t be much past nine.

Bass furrows his brow. “What am I? An amateur?”

“Well my stomach hurts like hell. Do you think Alka Seltzer dissolves in whiskey?” 

Bass flops a hand on Miles’ neck and squeezes. “I’ll leave that to your discretion. I’m going to go across the lines and ask Butler about setting up something formal with Kelly. We’ve got to go straight to the horse’s mouth if we’re going to eke out Virginia from this. You want to come?”

Miles shakes his head. “Butler’s mutton chops make me homicidal.”

“Understandable. So what’s your read on this? Why the armistice?” 

“They’re out of ammo. So are we, nearly, but I’m the better bluffer. The better everything.”

“I’m not sure your Father Christmas beard is better than Butler’s chops.” But before Miles can gripe, Bass continues seriously, “You think Foster’ll let Virginia go?”

“Don’t see why she would. _Northern_ Virginia maybe. But the only way we’re getting anything beneath our line of field works is if she’s done with war.” 

Bass sighs. “Okay. Here. Rachel sends her regards.” One hand produces a letter and the other raises up to silence Miles, if he planned on speaking. “She’s fine, Miles. Don’t freak out.”

So much for morning optimism.

* * *

Miles Matheson  
Manassas, Virginia

November 12, 2020

Dear Miles,

Bass asked me to write you to demonstrate, I suppose, that I am alive and well. At this point I might ask you how your little war on Virginia is going, and if you’ve successfully Napoleoned President Foster. But I don’t want to know. It terrifies me to think that the Monroe Republic might further extend its oppressive tentacles. Remember when you fought for the democracy of the United States, Miles? Now you fight to defend the petty ambitions of your psychopathic best friend and for your own glorification.

I beg of you: let me go. Forget Ben. You and Bass don’t need the Power back on. You need perspective. 

Sincerely,  
Rachel

* * *

November 16, 2020

The benefit of being general is you can spend all day in your tent issuing orders to the officers who come and go, until finally, when you can’t hide the tears anymore, you can send them all away and demand (and receive) solitude. That’s the state to which Miles has plummeted by the evening, lying on his cot, his uniform unbuttoned to reveal his yellowed t-shirt beneath. He’s had so much whiskey that his brain has gone liquid. He can’t see through his tears. His stomach is as angry with him as Rachel is, and he’s vomited more than once into his chamber pot.

“Jesus, Miles. How much have you had?” Bass has appeared and wrinkles his nose, presumably at the reek of bile emanating from beneath Miles’ bed.

“Not enough.” Miles chokes a bit on the snot that’s run back into his throat. Bass is going to know he’s been crying, but what can Miles do? Bass is the one person who gets unrestricted access to him, to _anyone_.

“What’s going on?” Bass taps him lightly on the side, and Miles scoots over enough for his friend to sit beside him. “It’s her, right? Only she gets to you like this.”

Biting his lip against a potential avalanche of new sorrow, Miles just manages to keep his face stolid.

“You want to tell me what went on between you two? Why you wouldn’t just bring her home to Philly when I asked you to? I could have helped prevent _this_ ,” Bass gestures grandiosely. 

Miles is so ashamed of what he became that month with Rachel that he couldn’t possibly speak it aloud. It wasn’t even the moments when he touched her that were the worst, though he has been cataloging each of those in terrible detail all day – when he choked her, however briefly, when he’d nearly struck her across the face, when he’d slid his hands over her slender thighs. Because of his irrepressible want and ire (not to mention her assassination attempt on him when he’d confined her to his tent), he’d eventually enforced a policy of more physical distance between them. But it was the things he’d said to her that had been truly disgusting.

“Bass. You should shoot me like the dog I’ve become.”

“Come on. If I wanted to kill you, I’d just bring you another case of whiskey.”

Bass kicks up his legs to lie down beside Miles, his hands tucked underneath his curls. “Miles, she came to play you. You _do_ see that right? How well it’s working? Ben could have come like we asked, but they sent her, because she gets in your mind and your pants. She can ruin us from the inside.”

“I didn’t…she didn’t get in my pants,” Miles objects, focusing on the most trivial piece.

“Sure, but you _thought_ about it. Every damn night. You are completely predictable, bud.” 

Miles’ sodden brain flicks to those long nights, knowing she was tied up outside the thin canvas of his tent, his hand crammed down the front of his shorts, sweaty, hair tangled in fingers, jerking himself painfully to her. _Always_ to her ever since the affair. Of course, Bass reads this plainly off Miles' face – no, off the static of his body; Bass doesn't even have to turn his head. He chuckles.

“The sooner you admit you still love her the better for us. Then we can discuss what to actually do with her.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“How we can get information out of her.”

“She’s too stubborn.”

“No, _you’re_ too stubborn. You know, Miles, you could just leave this to me. You wouldn’t even have to know what was happening until I found out where Ben was.” 

“You don’t do anything to her without my approval, do you hear me?” Miles snarls, turning sharply toward Bass and finding himself mere centimeters from Bass’ cheek. “She’s _my_ -” It sounds so possessive, and he doesn’t even know how to finish. _Sister-in-law? Ex?_ _Soul mate?_ he mentally concludes with a cynical sneer.

Bass shakes his head. “She’s your family – well, I’ve got news for you, man. We tried to get to your family when the lights went out. For _years_. They didn’t want to be found by you. I’m sorry, I know it hurts, but it’s the truth. Me, I would have followed you to the ends of the earth. Miles, if we can’t trust each other, then who can we trust?”

“Of course you can trust me. Why would you say that?” 

“I don’t know. Cuz you’re lying here in your tent with a death wish the size of the Old Dominion. And I don’t think Kelly’s gonna budge, as you suspected. The meeting with Butler was not promising. Chances are this campaign is just beginning, and I need you to not be stupid. I need you to go gentler on the bottle, Miles, and leave Rachel to me. You have got to focus.”


	3. Don't Give Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, folks: unreliable narrator. Miles is frustrated with Bass in this chapter, but bear in mind that Bass has good reason to be concerned about Miles' loyalty. Miles tried to ambush his own staff en route to Philly in an attempt to save Rachel.

(unsent)

Rachel Matheson  
Independence Hall, Philadelphia

November 23, 2020

Dear Rachel,

I haven’t cared about anything in a long time. I forgot what it felt like until I saw you again. I’m sorry for everything. Don’t give up on me.

Yours,  
Miles

* * *

November 24, 2020

The liquidy, almost-black eyes don’t exactly indict him but neither are they friendly. It’s more difficult than one would think for Miles to meet his own eyes in the mirror. He scrapes his straight blade through the soap on his cheek and is beset with chills. He’s surprisingly reluctant to part with his beard.

Without warning, Bass occupies his tent, and Miles restrains himself from dropping his blade and lunging toward the letter he has left sitting on the table beside him. It’s wisest not to draw attention to it. But as Bass speaks, his eyes almost imperceptibly drift to the parchment and back to Miles’ neck, busy shedding the epidermis of the inebriate for the civilized companion the president requires for his diplomatic mission.

“Well you _smell_ like you kept up your part of the bargain.” 

“A bargain would mean I get something in return,” Miles objects, puffing out one cheek to fashion a smoother landscape for his razor. Bass’ azure eyes flick downward again. The letter will have to be addressed.

“You _do_ get something in return for staying sober today, General – a potential end to this stalemate. If Kelly yields, you could even come home, see the woman you’ve lost your nut over.”

“I haven’t lost my…I wrote that letter after my fourth whiskey last night. I won’t send it.” 

“No. You _won’t_.”

“You give me personal orders now, Mr. President?”

“I do when you’re when you’re being stupid and childish.”

Miles should be angry with Bass – that would be the proper reaction – but he’s so damn numb, his hungover head bristling against light and sound and sensation, that he can barely nod. “Ah. For my own good then.”

He wipes the residual soap from his noticeably more youthful face - except the eyes, cracked skin around the edges of bloodshot whites.

“Miles, lying to me…it’s not smart.” Bass lightly taps the letter.

“Well, you’re the expert on lying,” Miles snaps. _Emma. Connor. How much of their friendship is built on lies?_ Miles grunts and crumples the letter in his right fist.

Bass puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head coldly. “What the hell did you mean by ‘don’t give up on me’? You planning something…else?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Miles pushes past Bass, buttoning his uniform and thrusting his fingers through his vaguely sweaty hair. He chokes on the fresh air outside of his tent and wishes it were whiskey.

* * *

Zeppelin is agitated. As they ride out to the tent where Kelly awaits, which the Georgians have pitched in No Man’s Land, Miles feels Zep stamping unnecessarily, swishing her tail. Breaking away from the pack, he rides her in a circle, and by the time he pulls back up to Bass, Bass is frowning.

“You’re holding her reigns too high and tight. Relax. You nervous?”

“No, I’m thirsty,” Miles barks. He doesn’t appreciate Bass telling him how to ride his horse in front of their staffs. But Bass isn’t wrong. Miles relaxes his wrists, his hands, his fingers and takes a deep breath.

When they’ve arrived and dismounted, General Butler is there to greet them. Miles scowls at the Georgian’s stupid configuration of hair. Butler says, “President Foster will see just the two of you. If you wouldn’t mind leaving your sidearms and swords with me.”

“Sorry?” (Miles.)

“What?” (Bass.)

“President’s orders. My apologies. We mean no disrespect.”

“Like hell, Butler,” Bass gripes.

“Excuse me, President Monroe, but President Foster won’t be armed either.” Butler has a syrupy, sleazy drawl.

“No. But you will be. With _our_ weapons.” Nevertheless, Bass begins disarming, so Miles has no choice but to follow his lead. He briefly gazes back at Jeremy, who is currently on his staff, and Jeremy nods reassuringly. As if Jeremy would know what to do if things turned sour.

Miles and Bass duck into the tent, and there she stands in her power suit and bun: prim, sharp-edged, sassy. Who wears heels on a battlefield? You would sink right into the mud.

“Welcome, President Monroe. General Matheson.”

She retains that vaguely affected Southern lilt. But to her credit, she does offer them each a hand. Miles removes his (well, Bass' old) riding gloves and succumbs to her icy clench. He frowns at her hand until she releases his. He’s been slouching a lot lately, but he straightens his back to achieve his full 6’2’’. It may be his imagination, but she appears to smirk at his adjustment. Miles knows Kelly thinks them bullies, buffoons. Well, they think her naïve.

“So the Butcher of Baltimore brings his slaughter to my fields. And I suppose we’re here to determine if you’ve adequately intimidated me into surrendering my land and my people. Well I’ve a deal to offer, _gentlemen_.” She pronounces the word with evident sarcasm, elongating the vowels.

Bass smirks. Miles’ guts lurch at the moniker, so recently spat at him by Rachel. It’s a vicious rumor. What happened in Baltimore was unfortunate, but hardly a massacre. And yet, Bass had argued pretty persuasively that a reputation for cruelty wasn’t exactly a bad thing in a world that is always a hair away from anarchy.

Kelly gestures at a bottle of amber-hued liquor, and Bass shakes his head to decline. “General Matheson is on the wagon, and we don’t want to tempt him.”

Miles exhales sharply, feeling like his own piqued horse. Bass is treating him like a child even in front of Kelly. His stomach audibly churns, and he spreads his hand over it in embarrassment.

Again, it could be Miles’ imagination, but Kelly appears to almost smile at him in derisive amusement.

She continues, “We’ve been disputing your southern boundary for years, boys.” _Gentlemen no more._ “I’ll agree to set it at the 77.0367 parallel, Washington, DC, and this bloodletting will cease. We let our soldiers go home to their families.”

“Kelly,” Bass snorts, reclining in a seat without invitation. He spreads his legs just so. “Are we in DC right now? Last I checked, we were in Manassas. And even if you offered us Manassas, drunk or no, Miles is just going to keep slaughtering your precious soldiers until you give up Virginia.” He rests his palms behind his head, as his bright eyes dance.

Why does Miles suddenly feel like a pawn in all this?

Kelly sits down herself, pouring the whiskey into a glass. The sharp scent opens Miles’ nostrils. “It is your brand, General,” she coaxes, gesturing at a third seat. Miles plops down.

“Don’t play hard to get, Kelly. I know you’re out of ammo,” Miles blurts, and Bass shoots him a look: _Let me handle this_.

She grins and hands Miles the drink she’s poured. She doesn’t imbibe; they all know that. The crystal is between Miles’ lips before he can think. He can’t bring himself to take in Bass’ reaction.

Kelly looks smug. “Well then you also know that we’ve a fresh shipment of bullets on the way from Britain. It’ll be here by armistice’s end. I tried to play nice. Remember that when my troops are pouring into Gettysburg like the second coming of Robert E. Lee's army.”

“Nice analogy. Too bad Lee fled Pennsylvania with his tail between his legs, one third of his troops turned fly-food. Thanks for the chat…and the drink. We’ll see you in hell.” Bass has stood, so Miles drains his glass, abrading his esophageal lining in a torrent of fire, and follows Bass out.

Outside, they snatch their weapons from Butler’s staff and remount. Zep floats Miles back toward his lines free and easy on his fresh wave of booze.

“That went well,” Miles offers without humor alongside his friend.

Bass eyes him crankily, as the gun-steel sky litters miniscule flakes of snow. Some collect in the golden curls like frosting on yellow cake. And before Bass even says it, Miles thinks it: “So tomorrow’s your birthday, man.”

Miles grunts.

“I’ve got a special present planned for you.”

If the tone is any indication, the present isn’t promising.

“You’ll assault the Georgian defenses before daybreak.”

“And break the armistice? Fuck, Bass. If we buck all the rules of civilized warfare, then what are we? Animals?”

“Just a few nights ago you were trying to convince me you were a dog.” There is no amusement in the blue eyes.

“I meant…” Miles gets tongue-tied in a tangle of frustration at everything that has lately transpired between them. “Look, I’d appreciate it if you kept my personal and professional life separate. Making comments about my drinking to Kelly…”

“When you decide to start acting professionally, let me know. Until then, I’ll treat you how you act. We’re not going to win this war using conventional approaches, Miles. You heard Kelly. Once she gets in that shipment of British ammo, we’re cooked. You have your orders. I’ll head back to Philly and see if I can’t get that ship intercepted in time.”

“ _We_ have almost no ammo. I told you.” Miles’ pulse throbs in his throat.

Bass stops his horse, who looks like she was cut from the gray sky. “That’s why we go in _now_ , before she has time to think.”

“With what: bayonets? Swords?”

Bass shrugs impassively. “It worked on Little Round Top.”

“We’re all going to die.”

“Happy Birthday.”

* * *

For the President’s Eyes Only

November 20, 2020

Dear Mr. President:

I have intercepted a letter from Eugene Porter addressed to Rachel Matheson, Rockford, Illinois. As you will recall, General Matheson already investigated and burned Rockford – no Mathesons remained there. The letter, however, explains that there was a cholera outbreak in Willoughby, Texas, where Mrs. Matheson is originally from. Her mother is dead. The letter is enclosed with a lock of Mrs. Porter’s hair and an antique ring. I imagine these artifacts will be of some use to you.

With highest regards,  
Pvt. William Strausser

* * *

Private William Strausser

November 24, 2020

Pvt:1

I am extremely satisfied with your performance. Your new orders are to report to Drexel’s manor and present Dr. Vidal with the following request for medications (enclosed) in exchange for this promissory note (enclosed). It is of the utmost importance that you keep your activities secret. I cannot stress enough that no one in the Militia must know about your mission.

When you return to the capital, you will be rewarded for your loyalty.

w/r  
SM

…

1\. The fact that Bass is using a lone private for important, secret business is highly unusual and speaks to the nature of this mission. Bass needs a solider who will do anything rather than a soldier who has proven his competence by climbing the ranks. That is Will Strausser.

* * *

November 24, 2020: Midnight

In between dashing off orders for the early morning assault, Miles writes a letter to Rachel, then immediately burns it in the orange candle-flame. The last word to curl into brown ash is her name.

* * *

(unsent)

Rachel Matheson  
Independence Hall, Philadelphia

November 24, 2020

Dear Rachel,

I gave up on us back then, and I’m so sorry for it. I loved you then, and I love you now. I’m sorry for the pain I've caused you. Believe me when I say, no man could die with a dirtier conscience.

Yours,  
Miles


	4. Jubilee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'est tout! I hope you enjoy.

The President  
Independence Hall, Philadelphia

May 3, 2021

Dear Mr. President:

Requesting orders to return with my army to Philadelphia. We achieved a complete rout of the enemy into North Carolina. I have detached garrisons along the border (positions marked on enclosed map). Pending your approval, my engineers will commence construction of three forts (see map). A report of our final battle is also enclosed. As you will see, the ordnance you sent was indispensible to our win. All the men performed admirably, though I would particularly like to commend Brig. Gen. Hudson and Majs. Hundle and Towser. We were worn down from a twenty-mile march and two days without rations. This victory would not have been possible without steadfast encouragement from all the junior officers.

I hope your health has improved.

Respectfully,  
Maj. Gen. M. E. Matheson  
Danville, VA

* * *

General Matheson  
HQ in the Field

May 5, 2021

Miles:

Happy Cinco De Mayo, amigo. You have my utmost gratitude, but honestly, what kind of moron doesn’t open his letter with: We won? Yes, you can come home now.

You’ve been worried about me? How sweet. It’s been a rough month, but Doc says I’m on the mend.

See you soon, brother.

w/r  
Bass

* * *

Capt. Jeremy Baker  
Confidential

May 5, 2021 

Jeremy:

Once you return to the capital, it is imperative that Miles does not speak to Rachel Matheson without me knowing what is said. Tail him at all times. Where he goes, you listen. Got it?

w/r  
SM

Burn this.

* * *

The President  
Independence Hall, Philadelphia

Prez,

Capisce. I’ll ready my glass to hold to his door…although the bedroom door worries me a bit. We both know he is a habitual masturbator, especially when he’s sober and has energy to burn. Do I get paid extra for this?

In case you’re wondering, he’s been off the bottle for three whole months! Should we get him a sobriety coin to celebrate? Nah, he’d probably spend it in poker.

Very Respectfully,  
Capt. J. B.

* * *

Capt. Jeremy Baker  
Confidential 

May 7, 2021

Jeremy:

Are we sleeping together? Because the only person who calls me prez does so while giving me head. Unless you plan on performing that function, you’d better show a little respect in your correspondence, or I’ll throw you in a cell considerably less nice than Rachel Matheson’s.

With sincerest regards,  
SM

* * *

Philadelphia reeks of sludge this time of year, which might be off-putting if Miles hadn’t missed it like hell. Pink and lime-green buds kiss the tips of branches and the interminable gray clouds have yielded to honest-to-God blue. Miles will feel even better once he’s seen Bass alive. Some medieval pestilence had swept through the city over the winter, poisoning a third of the population. Bass, who is never ill, had succumbed to that and a second blow from pneumonia. For the past month, Miles fretted that he’d win the war but lose his best friend; and, in their current absurdist narrative, the only thing worse than your best friend dying is your _president_ dying and being next in line for his job.

Independence Hall smells like bacon and molasses this afternoon. Miles hasn’t had a decent meal in eight months…or a drink in three. But he’s trying not to think on that. An orderly clatters by with a silver tray of bacon and teacups. Apparently, Miles’ eyes turn to cartoonish goggles, because the lad halts in his tracks.

“Go ahead, sir. The officers’ wives won’t miss a strip or two. Congratulations on Virginia. We’re all so grateful.”

Miles regards the youngster, completely unable to place him but getting the distinct sense that he’s supposed to be able to. He mumbles a thank you so that the soldier hopefully won't notice Miles has forgotten his name and jabs clumsy fingers at the crisp-hot pork. His fingers are still pink and he’s still munching on the dregs when he beats on Bass’ door with their trademark: _boom boom – boom boom boom_.

“It’s me!” Miles barks unnecessarily and curses the tiny bit of bacon that escapes his lips. He’s about to bend down and look for it, when he catches himself. He’s not in the field anymore. He can eat what he wants when he wants. 

“Come in.” The disembodied voice sounds slightly rough but familiar enough to send a ripple of pleasure down Miles’ back. 

Miles opens the door on his best friend propped up by a mound of mismatched pillows and superciliously reading a book (granted all reading looks pompous to Miles). It’s confirmed – Miles is embarrassingly happy to see Bass. He gets a running start to plop down beside the invalid, sending the book sailing off the bed.

Bass watches his book depart with a grimace. “Miles. Welcome home. You’re getting mud on my bed and what is that – bacon grease?”

Miles licks his fingers and then makes a show of wiping them on the forest-green bedspread. Dammit, he’s positively giddy. 

“Less than a minute together, and I already regret missing you,” Bass confirms with a roll of his eyes.

“You missed me?” Miles can feel his eyes dance. Gone is the tension of their last meeting in Manassas. Snuggling down into the pillow behind him, Miles feels the searing blue eyes penetrate him. Finally, he meets them with a quirk of his eyebrow. _What?_

“You won us Virginia. I’m proud, bud.” 

Miles shrugs. He’s pretty amazed himself, but he hardly feels deserving of the credit. So much went into this campaign; there aren’t enough thank yous in the world for men like Jim and Kip and every damn soldier who went down…all six hundred and forty-three of them. He flinches at that.

“Well, I’m promoting you, major general.”

“You’re…what? I’m already the highest rank in the militia.”

“To lieutenant general.” 

“No, Bass. We agreed. Major general is high enough. I’m no Washington or Grant.

“You are now.”

“I don’t want it, man.” Miles runs a hand over his face and realizes how greasy it is too late.

“You don’t get a say. The people want to honor you. This is for them. _And_ we’re going to have a big parade for you and your army later this week so the widows can wave their hankies, and young pretty things can lay flowers at your feet.

“No…” Miles mutters into his bacony palm.

“ _Yes_. It’s going to be sensational!” Bass sweeps his arm grandiosely and succumbs to a sudden fit of hacking. It’s then that Miles notices how blue the circles beneath his friend’s eyes are.

Reality having chastened Miles, he asks quietly, “How is she, Bass?” _Rachel._

Bass sighs shallowly and grips his bare chest. “She’s fine…I think. I haven’t seen her in a while. I’ve been in bed, wheezing away my last breath.” Bass is clearly irritated that Miles is showing concern for Rachel, when Bass is the one who almost died.

Miles telegraphs a mocking _Poor Baby_ frown, which descends into actual frown when he realizes how desperate he is to see Rachel and how unwelcome his visit will be. 

Bass continues, “If you see her, just remember…”

Miles cocks an eyebrow. “If?”

“It’d probably be best if you didn’t.” 

“Or what, you’ll beat me with one of your pillows? Hock a toxic loogie at me?”

Bass’ smile is rather disingenuous, but Miles isn’t going to spoil this homecoming. He gives Bass’ clammy bicep a brief pat, before departing.

* * *

It takes Miles four days to work up the nerve to see Rachel, and when he finally has the guard let him into her room a mere hour before the big parade, he is totally unprepared for what the sight of her blonde waves does to his loins. She is reading papers by the window, the afternoon sun illuminating the gentle curve of breast through satin shirt.

He clears his throat, feeling terribly silly in his finery. “What are you doing?”

Rachel barely glances at him under an elegant eyebrow. “Reading your field reports.”

How is it possible that this woman always says the last thing you’re expecting, even when she’s prisoner in _your_ capital city in _your_ republic? “You’re kidding. Where did you get them?”

“I asked Bass what you were doing all these months, and he said in lieu of newspapers, I could read these.” 

“Whu…y?” Miles can’t imagine how this arrangement would make sense.

“Why what? Why do I want updates, or why does Bass trust me with them?” 

“Nevermind.” 

Rachel leans back to sit on the edge of her writing desk, her bare toes spread on the molding next to the floor. “I mean, for one thing, they are rather interesting. This one is my favorite.” She extracts a sheet from the bottom of the pile. “How you ended the stalemate in Manassas by tunneling under the Georgian lines and stuffing the hole full of gunpowder. Brilliant. Where’d you get the saltpeter?”

“Um…” Miles rattles his jaw like an idiot and recovers, “I found this young bomber in Virginia, looking for work. She’s a real savant.”

Rachel puts down the parchment and finally squints at him, her crinkled blue eyes stunning as the spring sky. “Pretty?”

_Now she can read his mind? Oh the bomber._ “The hell does that…”

“You blush when you talk about pretty girls,” Rachel interrupts with a wry curl to her lip. 

“I do not,” Miles grumbles. He has the urge to shove his hand in his hair but remembers it has been slicked for the occasion. “Rachel, it’s been months. Have you been…okay here?”

“You mean how is incarceration treating me? Well, it’s been a little boring without your fingers on my neck…except, of course, when I received the Christmas present you sent me.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Rachel pulls on the brass nob of the top desk drawer and extracts several items.

“What are those?” Miles cranes his neck.

Rachel pads over and all the levity of her tone vanishes. “Don’t play like you don’t know.” Her eyes narrow to slits.

“I’m not playing.”

“My mother is dead.” Rachel unfolds her regal hand to reveal a lock of golden hair and a cracked ring.

“What?” Miles’ throat constricts. “Rachel, I’m…” he’s about to say _sorry_ , when he realizes, “how could you possibly _know_ that?”

“Oh, my good friend, Bass, let me know.” Her voice crackles with acerbity. “Yes, according to him, this is just the first of many deaths to come in my family if I don’t cooperate.”

“I didn’t…I had nothing to do with this.” Miles backs away from her.

“Don’t you dare, Miles. You and Bass are two arms on the same vile mannequin.”

“I…” Miles’ brain threatens to shut down. What the hell has Bass done? He couldn’t…wouldn’t…And yet they’ve spent so many months apart.

Rachel retreats to the window and strokes the laced curtain, held fast by a lavender sash. “Look. It’s your parade.” She stares unblinking at the crowd assembling in the streets. “They want their Butcher. The more blood you unleash, the more they love you. The vicarious thrill of the kill.”

Miles glances at the spectacle below them and swallows. He’s shown weakness to Rachel, and it won’t do. It proves everything that Bass fears. So, he invades her space and reaches around her, “They just want to believe someone has control over their lives…” to gather his dispatches from among her belongings “…when in truth, I have so little.”

She glances briefly over her shoulder at him and ends up nearly at his lips. “Or maybe you just can’t own up to the responsibility.”

From behind, he draws aside a strand of hair that has fallen across her face. The cornsilk is irresistible. He whispers in her ear, “You have no fucking idea what responsibility feels like, Rachel.”

“Don’t I?” She smiles and turns around to look him fully in the face, mere millimeters from his nose.

* * *

Miles is in the viewing box with Bass and Jim and a select group of officers, watching the gleaming blue uniforms march by in perfect columns. He finds he can’t look at the men's faces – the sun is too bright to raise his eyes that high. He feels oddly weighed down – choked – by the extra star Bass affixed to his collar. Sweat drips down his nose and plops in his lap, though it can’t be more than 75 degrees. Now and then Bass coughs discreetly into his fist – on the mend but still fragile.

Finally, the procession ends.

“Let’s go greet your adoring fans,” Bass gestures.

Quickly, the crowd presses in on Miles and Bass, as women stuff flowers into every crevice of their jackets and thousands of people attempt to shake their hands. Bass greets them all with a smile. When Miles becomes too laden with flowers, he starts dropping and then rejecting them, losing his cool. Disapprobation mars Bass’ crystalline eyes, but Miles pushes away the groping hands and growls, “Let me through! Let me through!” all the way back to Independence Hall. He burns fiercely with shame.

* * *

Private William Strausser  
October 1, 2021

Pvt: 

Do you recall those medications you purchased for me from Dr. Vidal? I have a little job for you that involves them and the prisoner we are holding in Independence Hall. She is related to Lt. Gen. Matheson, so you'll understand when I tell you this mission requires the utmost discretion. Report to location Sparrow F-1 at 0900 tomorrow to receive your orders.

w/r  
SM

Burn this letter.


End file.
